


A Crystal-Clear Canvas

by involuntaryorange



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/involuntaryorange/pseuds/involuntaryorange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a lawyer. Eames washes his windows. That isn't a euphemism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Week One

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】【EA】A Crystal-Clear Canvas透明画布](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3351779) by [CoraT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoraT/pseuds/CoraT)



> Inspired entirely by this [anonymous prompt](http://earlgreytea68.tumblr.com/post/108775430391/arthur-working-a-9-to-5-job-in-a-fancy-office-on) posted to [earlgreytea68](http://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68)'s tumblr.
> 
> Title is from "When I Fall," a Barenaked Ladies song about — you guessed it — a window-washer. Upon revisiting the lyrics with this story in mind, I discovered that it was strangely fitting for an Inception AU.

_50 more pages, and then I can go home._

The computer screen was blurring before his eyes, which had reached the sticky, burning stage of dryness.

_49 more pages, and then I can go home and shower._

Arthur reached for his mug of coffee, which had gone cold. He’d lost count of whether this was his eighth or ninth cup. It’s not like he wasn’t well-paid for his work, but on days — nights? days? — like this, he took grim satisfaction from the thought that he was extracting even more pay from the firm in the form of free coffee from the fancy machine in the break room.

_48 more pages, and then I can go home and shower and take a quick nap._

Someone needed to finish checking this contract before it was sent over to the client, and since he was the senior associate on the project the task fell to him. Of course, the client didn’t get the final details to him until 9pm the evening before the contract was due, so he was stuck working through the night. And into the morning, apparently, since the sun was rising in the sky and casting cold shadows across his desk. This was the downside of his new office; when he’d become a senior associate last week he was finally moved from his windowless closet on the fifth floor to a slightly larger office with floor-to-ceiling windows on the 20th floor, and while the natural light and the view of the mountains were usually nice, right now they served only to remind him of just how long he had been sitting at this desk staring at this document.

_47 more pages, and then I can go home and shower and take a quick nap… and head back here._

Arthur buried his face in his hands, rubbing at his temples. Once he sent the contract off to the client, the client would okay it and then he’d have to start organizing the signing. At best, he had two or three hours of freedom ahead of him before he had to re-enter the fray. This was not what he had expected his life to look like when he’d decided to go to law school, and yet here he was. “Golden handcuffs,” lawyers called it — mostly muttered to one another when passing in the hallways at 3am. The work sucked, but he was being paid handsomely to do it. And he was good at it; he had a mind for organization, for keeping track of a hundred different things at once. He was _born_ to play point on massive projects. Never mind the fact that he didn’t have any time to actually enjoy having money. He dreamt of traveling, of waking up in a new city every week.

 _Maybe when I make partner_.

A strange noise coming from direction of the windows interrupted his train of thought. He raised his head from his hands and was startled to see a pair of eyes staring back at him. He flailed in shock, knocking the cold dregs of his coffee over onto a stack of files and nearly tipping his chair over backwards.

“Shit!”

As he rummaged through the detritus on his desk looking for napkins, he looked up at the window again. The pair of eyes belonged to a window-washer, who was still looking at him, dripping squeegee hanging at his side. Arthur shot him a frustrated glare as he unearthed a stack of only-slightly-used napkins and began dabbing at the ruined files.

The window-washer grinned and shrugged, mouthing the word “Sorry” exaggeratedly as he held his palms up in the air. Arthur noticed that his teeth were crooked, which was probably to be expected from a window-washer. As was the scruff on his chin. And the ink peeking out from under the sleeves of his snug t-shirt, winding down his admittedly well-formed biceps. His lips, on the other hand, would have been out of place on anyone not working in the porn industry. _Could be a second job_ , Arthur’s brain added unhelpfully as his eyes skimmed down the man’s thighs.

 _Fuck, I should be working_ , Arthur’s brain slightly-more-helpfully supplied when his eyes reached the dripping squeegee once again hanging by the man’s side. He darted his eyes back up to the man’s face and tried not to blush when he saw that he was being watched with a smirk.

Arthur rolled his eyes and turned his head pointedly toward his computer screen. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the washer still standing there, motionless for a moment or two before he dipped his squeegee into his bucket and began soaping up the glass. Arthur let out a small sigh of relief, and scooted his chair a few inches over so that his monitor blocked him from view.

 _46 more pages, and then I can go home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: this fic will actually have a plot! Still no angst, though. Also, no porn. I can only expand my writing horizons in one direction at a time.


	2. Week Two

A week later, Arthur was spending his Friday morning logging his billable hours from the past week. A decree from above — namely from Maurice Fischer, the chairman of Fischer Browning LLP — had partners cracking down on logging, so Arthur’d had to abandon his usual strategy of waiting until the end of the month and filling it all in from memory. 

Compared to his usual Friday mornings, filling in spreadsheets was comparatively peaceful. It also didn’t require all of his focus, so he was able to listen to music while he worked, and if he did a bit of chair-dancing and lip-synching while he bopped his head in time to Belle and Sebastian, well, that was his own business.

This time when there was a knock at his window, he only leapt an inch or two out of his seat. (It helped that his coffee mug was out of reach.) The window-washer was there again, staring at Arthur with an amused look on his face that suggested he had been watching for at least a little while. Arthur attempted to channel his embarrassment into irritation, frowning at the window-washer and moving his hands in an elaborate gesture that he hoped conveyed something like “You have no business spying on me, and also, don’t pretend you’d be able to resist dancing along to ‘If She Wants Me.’” 

The window washer only broadened his smile and winked. Then he pulled what appeared to be a dry-erase marker out of his pocket and began writing on the window. Backwards, so that it looked right from Arthur’s perspective.

 

WHATS YOUR NAME?

 

Arthur raised an eyebrow and turned conspicuously back to his work.

Thirty seconds later, there was more knocking at the window. The washer was still standing there, looking at Arthur with an exaggerated pout. Once he caught Arthur’s eye, he tilted his head like a puppy and deepened his pout further.

“Fine,” Arthur huffed to himself. He grabbed a yellow legal pad from his desk, scrawled “ARTHUR” on it with a Sharpie, and held it up with a challenging glare.

The washer’s pout turned into a delighted smile. He uncapped his marker again. He worked surprisingly quickly for someone writing backwards.

 

HELLO ARTHUR

IM EAMES

ITS A PLEASURE TO MEET YOU

 

Arthur gave a sarcastic wave and mouthed “Hi.” Then he turned back to his computer and tried not to think about the fact that it was nice to have a name to replace the previous unwieldy label of “random hot window-washer guy.” What kind of name was “Eames,” anyway? Was it a first name or a last name? Was this some sort of _Usual Suspects-_ style improvisation based on the leather recliners he’d no doubt seen in the senior partners’ offices?

His train of thought was interrupted by another knock on the window. When Arthur looked up, he discovered that Eames had written more.

 

GET COFFEE WITH ME?

 

Arthur’s eyebrows climbed his forehead as Eames’s question sank in. Was this a joke? Was he being mocked? Was he actually being asked out by a window-washer? And was he actually going to consider it? Was this what his life had come to? Eames smiled winningly and gestured to the side with his head, as though Arthur could step through the window and accompany him off the scaffold to some sort of floating café.

Arthur squinted at Eames — at the pull of his t-shirt across his shoulders, at the hint of chest hair and curlicues of black ink sneaking over the collar, at the holes in his grease-stained but well-fitting jeans, at the floppy tongues of his steel-toed boots. He was the complete opposite of the kind of guy Arthur normally went out with (Ivy League education, professional degree, affinity for manscaping and those white-collared blue button-downs that Ariadne referred to as “douchebag shirts”). Arthur couldn’t decide if this was a strike against Eames or a point in his favor.

At the precise moment that Arthur opened his mouth to answer — he wasn’t going to be sure what his reply would be until it came out — a notification popped up on his computer letting him know that he had a new e-mail. Arthur clicked through and experienced a familiar surge of adrenaline when he saw the word “URGENT” in the subject line and the name of the junior partner on his current project in the “from” field. So much for a peaceful morning. 

The e-mail made his decision for him, not only by vaporizing any free time he might have had but by reminding him that he was a lawyer — a lawyer wearing a _three-piece suit_ for christ’s sake — and not the kind of person who accepted a date from a random guy wearing an Ed Hardy t-shirt — an _Ed Hardy t-shirt_ — with whom he had exchanged a grand total of three sentences through a pane of shatterproof glass. Even if the guy was really, mind-numbingly hot. Even if Arthur’d had a free morning after all. Really, this was one of his craziest impulses ever, and that was including his decision to take the California and New York Bars at the same time.

With renewed resolve, Arthur scowled at Eames and shook his head. He also mouthed the word “No” for good measure. 

Arthur expected huffiness (or at least as much huffiness as a man holding a squeegee could manifest), but Eames reacted strangely good-naturedly **.** He smiled and held up his palms —  _Have it your way_ — and resettled his ragged baseball cap on his head. Then he swiped his squeegee across the glass, erasing his notes with ease. Arthur could almost convince himself that they had never even been there in the first place.

He turned off the music and opened up the document that Fran had sent. He rested his hand on his forehead to block off his view of the window, and when he finally gave in to temptation and looked up, Eames was gone.


	3. Week Three

The next Friday found Arthur across the city in a rival firm’s conference room, hammering out the details of an acquisition. Opposing counsel was trying to bullshit him, and he was trying to convey to them that they could not possibly bullshit him because he was unbullshittable. As lawyers tossed numbers across the table to one another, Arthur doodled in the margins of his notebook and pretended to take notes. If, once or twice, he found his thoughts drifting to denim stretched across strong thighs and a mouth as lush as a ripe peach, well, you do what you can to stay awake during a business meeting.

***

He’d asked Ariadne about it once over a midnight snack/commiseration in her office. “So what’s the deal with that flirty window-washer?”

She’d looked at him like he was crazy. “The what? Window-washer? We have window-washers?”

“Of course we have window-washers. Someone’s got to clean the L.A. smog off the windows.”

“Well, I’ve never noticed any. I think they’re pretty good at staying out of the way.”

Arthur had decided to drop the topic. Instead, he’d brought up the architectural plans for the waterfront development project and closed his eyes as Ariadne’s enthusiastic criticisms — “Seriously, Arthur, did you even see that they’re planning to put a _parking structure_ right by the _water_?” — washed over him.

***

By the time the negotiations ended for the day, Arthur was so exhausted that he decided to bypass the office altogether and go back to his apartment to snag a few hours of sleep. There would be time to catch up on work tomorrow. 

He picked up a sandwich on the way home and ate it at his coffee table while watching YouTube videos on his phone. Although he’d technically been living in this apartment for three years, he spent so little time in it that getting a television and real furniture had never been a priority. He had a bed, a microwave, a coffee table, a few books he’d been given as gifts that sat on the coffee table as a constant reminder of his lack of leisure-reading time, and a closet full of suits. At least the suits were nice. Arthur had heard that you should spend good money on a bed because you spend a third of your life in it; well, his mattress was from IKEA, but his suits were bespoke.

After finishing the last bite of his sandwich and the latest episode of _Never Mind the Buzzcocks_ , Arthur stripped off his clothes and collapsed into bed. (Well, semi-collapsed. He’d learned from experience that his cheap Swedish bed frame couldn’t handle full-blown collapsing.) He stared at his blank walls until his eyes drifted shut and he slept.

When he got into the office on Saturday morning, he discovered that Eames had left him a message. In a corner of the window, near the floor, he’d drawn a bouquet of flowers — quite impressively, Arthur acknowledged — using a veritable rainbow of markers. Really, more colors than Arthur would have expected to exist in the dry erase market. The riot of color stood out in Arthur’s otherwise dreary office, its exuberance contrasting sharply with the beige carpet and pine-veneered desk. Next to the flowers, Eames had scrawled:

MISSED YOUR GRUMPY FACE DARLING 

xxE

Arthur rolled his eyes at the endearment, though perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he rolled his eyes at the warmth that flooded through him upon reading the endearment. He traced his fingers across the glass, almost expecting softness and heat but encountering the usual shock of cool solidity. Then he moved a stack of file boxes in front of the drawing so that visitors to his office wouldn’t be able to see it. 

Although occasionally over the next week, when he got up to stretch his legs and work the kinks out of his neck, it was possible that he peered behind the boxes and smiled to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one today! The next chapter may be a bit slower coming because it sort of involves sexytimes. (Emphasis on the "sort of.")


	4. Week Four

Arthur raised his head groggily from his desk. Disoriented, he briefly wondered what the horrible noise was, then realized it was the alarm he had set on his cell phone. Reality slowly seeped back into his head as he reached for the phone with numb fingers (sleeping at one’s desk did not tend to promote good circulation) and silenced the alarm. He’d been up most of the night going through case law, and eventually decided to snag a few hours of sleep at his desk so that he could make it through another work day. 

He checked the time: 9am. He had a meeting with the senior partners at 9:30, which meant he had just enough time to change out of his wrinkled clothes and freshen up. And remove the Post-it note that had apparently adhered itself to his forehead.

He stood up and stretched, cracking his vertebrae in as many directions as he could. He made his way over to the closet where he kept his spare suit. He kicked off his shoes, taking a moment to wiggle his toes and appreciate their temporary freedom.

As the feeling came back into his fingers, he removed his waistcoat and tossed it onto an empty hanger. He removed his belt and unzipped his fly, untucking the tails of his shirt. He undid the buttons one by one, removed his cufflinks, and slid the shirt down his arms, tossing it on the floor of the closet (it was just going to the dry cleaners anyway). He grabbed the hem of his undershirt and pulled it up over his head.

As the shirt cleared his head, he caught some movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head to follow it and discovered Eames standing outside the window, staring unabashedly. _Oh right, Friday morning_. Arthur managed to override his initial instinct to shriek and cover his chest with his hands like a woman in a cartoon, and settled for clenching his fists at his sides and glaring at Eames.

“Do you mind?” he mouthed.

Eames shook his head and flourished a hand toward the window, as if to say _By all means_. And then he crossed his arms over his broad chest and continued to stare.

Arthur considered lowering the blinds. The cord was only a few feet away. He should close the blinds. A sane person would close the blinds.

But Eames’s stare was like a challenge, and Arthur was a little loopy from sleep deprivation and fairly tired of being sane. After glancing down to confirm that he was wearing decent underwear, he resumed his eye contact with Eames and began slowly working his pants down his hips. Eames’s eyebrows rose and his eyes widened in shock for just a second, quickly replaced by his usual insouciant expression. 

Arthur stepped out of the trousers once they pooled at his feet, then slowly leaned over to pick them up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the muscles in Eames’s jaw flex as his smile turned into gritted teeth. Casually, as though he had no idea that he was standing in his underwear in front of a complete stranger, he folded the pants and draped them on the hanger. He strode to his desk, grabbed the jacket he’d draped over the back of his chair before his nap, and added it to the hanger as well.

He could practically feel Eames’s gaze burning on his back as he turned to his closet and swapped hangers, taking out his change of clothes. Although there was glass between them, they were only about five feet apart, and the strange intimacy of the situation was making Arthur’s skin tingle. It was heady, commanding Eames’s attention like this, and Arthur took a perverse pleasure not just in the way Eames’s unblinking eyes skated across his body but in the fact that he was being _completely_ out of character.

He wriggled into the new pants, and as Eames’s eyes followed the sway of his hips, he had never before felt so grateful for skinny tailoring. He left the fly unzipped, a small triangle of boxer briefs still visible as he pulled on a fresh undershirt and smoothed it down over his chest.

Eames’s eyes trailed Arthur’s fingers up the placket of his dress shirt as he slowly slipped the buttons through the buttonholes. Tucked in his shirt. Zipped up his pants. Ran the belt through his belt loops and cinched it shut. Pulled on a vest and buttoned it up. Eames’s eyes never left his body, hungrily tracing Arthur’s flesh as it was covered up in layers of cotton and wool. And Arthur continued to preen under the surveillance, pretending that he was merely taking his time getting dressed rather than performing some sort of strange reverse striptease for a voyeur.

As he fastened his left cufflink, though, he caught a glimpse of his watch — _Shit_. It was 9:25, which meant he had 5 minutes to get to Robert Fischer’s office. Panicked, he jammed his feet into his shoes, shoved his arms into his jacket, and draped his tie over his upturned collar. He could tie it in the elevator.

As he ran out of his office he looked back at Eames one more time. He was going to make some sort of apologetic explanatory gesture, but when their eyes met he froze at the expression on Eames’s face. His brow was furrowed, his lips were parted, and — there was no better word for it — he looked _ravenous_ , like it was taking all of his control not to come crashing through the window, pin Arthur to the wall, and have his way with him.

Arthur gasped in a breath, looked to the ceiling, and counted to ten; skinny tailoring might be a boon for stripping, but not for meeting with senior partners when you had a hard-on. He willed his body to cooperate, then spun on his heel and left his office and a still motionless Eames at the window.

The heat in Eames’s eyes stayed with Arthur through the meeting, an afterimage haunting him every time he blinked. When he got back to the office, the bouquet was gone, but in its place was a simple message written in black:

THANX FOR THE SHOW, LOVE

xxE


	5. Week Five

On the fifth Friday, Arthur was finally expecting Eames. As the scaffold descended into view, Arthur flipped open a file and pretended to be immersed in work. When he sensed that Eames was fully in view, he looked up from his paperwork to find the expected smirk directed at him. Arthur aimed for a surprised-but-contained reaction that conveyed _Oh, I didn’t expect to see you there, but I am not shocked and I am able to easily integrate this into my day_. He was rather proud of how well he pulled it off.

Eames gestured to Arthur’s (clothed) torso and mimed disappointment. Arthur was sorely tempted to stick out his tongue, but realized that might undermine the effects of last week’s impromptu striptease. Instead he settled on feigned irritation, and turned his attention back to the files to actually do work.

It was strangely companionable, paging through files at his desk while Eames efficiently worked his way across the windows. There was an easy elegance to the way Eames cleaned, as though he were an artist at a canvas. Occasionally their eyes would meet and Arthur would bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

A sudden clanging noise caused Arthur to start and look up at Eames’s face, except Eames’s face wasn’t there anymore. Nor was the rest of his body. All that Arthur could see was one end of the scaffold and the cables that should have been supporting the other side.

“Holy fucking shit fuck!” Arthur ran over to the window, standing up so hastily that he knocked his chair over. He pressed his face against the glass and let out a relieved breath when he saw Eames standing in the cradle of the now-very-crooked scaffold, clinging to the railings and looking slightly alarmed. He glanced up at Arthur with wide eyes and gave him an unconvincing thumbs-up.

Arthur, now that his pulse had returned to a non-fatal rate, ran to his office phone and dialed 911. He shouted into the phone, trying not to sound too hysterical, and after he managed to successfully explain the situation to a very patient operator, he hung up and returned to the window, where Eames was scowling and (presumably) yelling into his own phone. Whoever Eames was talking to must have hung up, because Eames suddenly looked at the screen in disgust and shoved the phone back in his pocket. 

Arthur tried to signify to Eames that he had successfully called emergency services. Then he sat with his hands pressed against the glass, staring at Eames and waiting for help to come.

Help came 20 minutes later in the form of a brigade of firemen carrying an impressive array of ropes and machinery. They surveyed the scene, exchanged a few hand gestures with Eames, and then, after a few minutes of murmured consultation, two of the men started up a large oscillating saw and began cutting into the metal frame into which one of the window panels was set. Another pair began searching the office for sturdy anchor points.

Arthur paced. He didn’t want to interfere with the rescue mission, but he was unaccountably anxious not being able to see Eames and make sure he was okay. He stood back while the firemen finished sawing through the metal frame. As they dislodged the panel and pulled it into Arthur’s office, the noise from outside poured in after it. He could hear the sounds of traffic in the streets below, the wind whistling through the office building canyons, and one rather agitated Eames.

“Bloody buggering fuck!”

Arthur leaned over the firemen crouching on the floor and stuck his head as far out as he dared. “Wait, you’re British?”

Eames looked up at him. “Could we maybe discuss this later, darling? Perhaps when I’m not dangling 200 feet above the pavement?” He caught a harness that the firemen tossed down to him and began wrapping it around his waist and legs.

Arthur opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the deep whine of a news helicopter arriving at the scene. 

Eames craned his head and looked alarmed when he saw the chopper. He muttered “Shit!” and pulled his baseball cap further down his forehead, turning in towards the building as he finished buckling himself into the harness. Arthur briefly wondered about the reaction, but then he realized that he’d be pissing himself if he were in Eames’s place so perhaps it was understandable if Eames didn’t want his face to be plastered all over the national news.

A burly arm pushed Arthur aside as three firemen pulled Eames up; when he was close enough, one of them grabbed the back of the harness and hauled him in until he was sprawled across the floor. He lay there for a moment, his face buried in the carpeting. He looked, Arthur idly noted, not unlike a shipwrecked man washed up on a beach. With a groan, Eames dragged himself to his hands and knees, then slowly drew himself up to standing. He waved off the firemen standing around him ready to offer assistance, and began unbuckling his harness.

After he had unhooked the last latch and dropped the harness to the floor, he finally looked at Arthur. “Well. That was an invigorating start to my day.”

Arthur gaped at him dumbly for a few seconds, then, without thinking, rushed over to him and wrapped his arms tightly around him in a hug. After about thirty seconds he realized that this was perhaps not normal behavior, although Eames _was_ hugging him back. He reluctantly drew away and tried not to shift awkwardly.

Eames looked him up and down evaluatively. “You’re shorter than I thought.”

“I’m the same height as you.”

“I thought you’d be taller than me.”

Arthur was prepared to object, but the sudden blare of a truck horn from the street below reminded him of the current situation. “Why are you not more fazed by what just happened?”

Eames shrugged. “Hazard of the job. Let me get you coffee to make up for disturbing you.”

Arthur’s instinct was to decline, as usual. “I can get free coffee from the break room.”

Eames put a hand on Arthur’s upper arm. “Let me rephrase that, darling. I’m taking you out of this bloody building and we are getting coffee. It’s not like you can do any work in here right now, anyway.” He gestured to the firemen breaking down their equipment and the papers blowing off of Arthur’s desk in the 20th-floor gusts of wind. Without waiting for Arthur’s answer, he dragged him out of the office.

Arthur followed Eames silently to the elevator, down to the lobby, out the door, and to a café down the block. Now that he could finally talk to Eames, he was strangely tongue-tied. He cast nervous glances at Eames while he ordered them coffees, then trailed after him to a table tucked away in a corner.

He finally broke the silence by blurting out the first thing he could think of. “So. Eames. Is that a first name or a last name?”

“It’s just Eames.”

“Like Cher.” _Like Cher? That’s your conversational contribution?_

“ _Precisely_ like Cher. Though, frankly, I think I look better than she does in a gaffer-tape leotard.”

Arthur’s brain was momentarily paralyzed as it simultaneously a) boggled at the fact that Eames just made a reference to Arthur’s all-time favorite music video (side note: good lord, _how_ had an 8-year-old dancing along to “Turn Back Time” not twigged his parents’ gaydar?) and b) pictured Eames straddling an enormous cannon on the deck of a battleship. _Freud would have a fucking field day_ , Arthur’s few unoccupied neurons piped up. _No he wouldn’t_ , tossed back a few more neurons newly freed from remembering young Arthur’s hobbies, _there’s nothing even remotely subtle about replacing Eames’s cock with a huge gun. Barely even counts as a metaphor. And is quite possibly even more overtly sexual than just thinking about his cock. Mmm, Eames’s cock. Wonder what it looks like…_

Arthur wasn’t sure how long he’d been offline, but it had definitely been noticeable judging by the way Eames cleared his throat and changed the topic. “So, Arthur, what do you do? Other than amateur stripping, I mean.”

Arthur blinked as he tried to regain his conversational bearings and drag his mind out of the gutter. Well, out of _a_ gutter, at any rate, and into a _different_ gutter, this one of Eames’s creation.

“That’s not an evaluation of your skill, by the way,” Eames added. “I use the terminology in the technical sense. I never paid you, after all.”

Something about Eames’s easy banter flipped a switch for Arthur, turning him back into normal conversational mode. “Consider it a freebie.” Eames smiled at him, a small _Ah, there you are_ quirk of the lips. “I do transactional law. Mostly mergers and acquisitions, that sort of thing.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

Arthur snorted. “I’m good at it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Of course I don’t enjoy it. Nobody enjoys it. But what else would I do?”

“You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.” Eames rested his chin on one hand, using the other to idly toy with the lid of his coffee cup.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at the career counseling. “That’s rich, coming from a window washer.”

“Your condescension is much appreciated, Arthur. Anyway, the window-washing is only a part-time gig.”

“Oh yeah? What else do you do?”

“Why don’t you try to guess.”

Arthur pretended to deliberate. “Well, I know you’re not a secret agent, because you’re terrible at spying.”

”Trust me, pet, if I were spying on you, you wouldn’t know.” Eames looked steadily at Arthur.

Arthur ignored the little thrill that sent through him. “Porn star?”

“Ah, have you seen my films then?” Arthur choked on his coffee. “Joking, dear Arthur. I prefer my liaisons to occur in private, and free from the burden of intrusive camera angles.” Eames took a sip from his cup. “Plus, waxing one’s bollocks once is enough for a lifetime, in my opinion.” Arthur narrowly avoided choking again. 

“Sorry, is this the part of the date where we talk about our testicles?” As the question left Arthur’s mouth he realized he’d referred to this as a “date”; although Eames had been flirting with him like a sailor on shore leave ( _don’t think about the battleship, don’t think about the battleship_ ) it still felt a little presumptuous to assume that this was _that_ kind of shared beverage. He bit his lip and tried not to wince.

But Eames only smirked reassuringly. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s not a date _until_ we talk about our testicles. Well done us.” Arthur’s blush remained, though its valence shifted from positive to negative. “So, you hate your job but you don’t know what else to do. Were you always going to be a lawyer?”

“I did Navy ROTC in college. I was going to join the Marines.”

“What happened?”

“I realized I was gay.”

Eames stared off into the distance for a moment, and then shook his head vigorously. “I’m sorry, I was just picturing 20-year-old Arthur in uniform. _Please_ tell me you had combat boots.”

“I may or may not still have them in the back of my closet.”

“Arthur, dearest, you’re going to give me a heart attack. Family?”

Arthur furrowed his brow at the sudden change of topic. “What?”

“Do you have any family in the area?”

“I don’t really have any family, period. My parents were estranged from their relatives, they’re dead now, and I was an only child.” Arthur shrugged.

“Hm.” Normally, people made some uncomfortable attempt at sympathy when Arthur revealed this information, but Eames seemed to be weighing the information thoughtfully. This felt strangely like a job interview. “Boyfriend?”

Arthur shook his head. “When would I find the time to date?”

“You’ve found the time right now.”

“That’s true.” Arthur thought for a moment. “How long do you think it takes to put a window back in a wall?”

“Mm, quite a while I would imagine.”

“Ah.” Arthur bit his lip and looked down at the napkin he’d been steadily tearing into tiny pieces during the conversation.

“Why, do you have an idea as to how we might while away the hours before your office is usable again?” The spark of interest in Eames’s eyes belied his steady smile. 

Arthur cleared his throat and returned his heated gaze. “I might have one or two.”

Eames’s crooked grin was blinding. “Oh, darling, you’re not thinking nearly ambitiously enough if you’re stopping at two.” He stood up, tossed his empty cup toward a garbage can, and held a hand out to Arthur. “Shall we? I’ve a room on the other side of the city, but I assume you live nearby.”

Arthur hesitated for only a moment before throwing out his own cup, standing up, and planting his palm firmly in Eames’s grasp. “You assume correctly, Mr. Eames. Follow me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally I got to write some dialogue! My instinct is to write everything as dialogue, so it was an interesting challenge having to get through four chapters without the main characters being able to actually speak to one another.
> 
> I just wrote the ending of the last chapter and I'm excited to get it posted, so hopefully I'll be able to finish the rest of the remaining two chapters soon!


	6. Week Six

The following Friday, Eames didn’t show up.

Arthur had to admit he’d been looking forward to seeing Eames outside his window again. The sex had been toe-curlingly hot, of course — Eames’ skillful tongue and fingers plus Arthur’s hadn’t-gotten-laid-in-six-months enthusiasm turned out to be a rather explosive combination — but it had been strangely tender, too. Between rounds they’d lain in bed with their limbs intertwined, exchanging lingering kisses and lazy caresses, occasionally catching each other’s eyes and smiling as though they had a shared secret.

Arthur had felt… well, he had felt like he was _home_ , which, technically speaking, was accurate, but his apartment — with its bare walls and empty cabinets — had never really felt like home before. Apparently the problem hadn’t been a lack of art on the walls or the dearth living room furniture, but the absence of a built British window-washer covered in truly dire tattoos.

And Eames, Eames had seemed pretty happy too. Not just for the obvious reasons — although the litany of praise, the _Arthur fuck you’re so gorgeous can’t believe you’re here darling nobody else_ spilling from his mouth during the more heated moments did suggest enjoyment. Even during their peaceful interludes, though, he’d seemed somehow more at ease, his carefully cultivated salaciousness replaced with what had seemed like genuine joy and affection. 

Then Eames’s phone had rung, and when he’d looked at the caller ID he’d cursed under his breath. “Sorry, love, I need to take this.” And then he’d disappeared into the bathroom. Arthur could hear the murmurs of a quiet conversation through the door, though he couldn’t make out any of the words. Eames had sounded frustrated, though, and judging by the increasingly long silences and the rising volume of Eames’s voice, the conversation wasn’t going well. 

When he’d emerged from the bathroom, his mouth was set in a thin line. Arthur had never seen him look so serious. He’d barely ever seen him without a lascivious grin, come to think of it. 

“I hate to do this, Arthur, but I need to go.” Eames had collected his clothes from the floor and begun dressing.

“Window-washing emergency?”

Eames had smiled regretfully as he pulled on his socks. “Something like that. I’m needed for something that can’t wait.”

Arthur had frowned at the blankets, trying to resist the urge to say something clingy and stupid like “When will I see you again?” or “Can I keep your t-shirt to sleep in?” 

He’d looked up when Eames had dropped a kiss on his forehead, and then Eames was saying “I had a lovely time, Arthur. Really truly,” and then he was walking out the door. It had all happened so quickly that Arthur had completely forgotten to ask for Eames’s phone number. But, he’d reasoned afterwards, at least Eames knew where to find him.

(Though now Arthur was starting to think that Eames had no intention of finding him.) 

His office had been out of commission for a couple of days, and while that hadn’t freed Arthur from his obligation to do work — the Internet had been ruining lawyers’ weekends for several decades, after all — it had spurred him to take it a bit easier. So instead of seeking out work, Arthur had decided to enjoy whatever small amount of free time he could carve out that weekend. He’d slept in. He’d gone jogging along the beach. He’d bought a frying pan and made an omelet. He’d thought about making omelets for Eames. Or maybe Eames could make omelets for him. He didn’t know if Eames could cook.

In fact, Arthur was now realizing, he didn’t really know _anything_ about Eames, did he? He’d told Eames about his job (such as it is), his family (or lack thereof), his hopes and dreams (limited though they may be), and Eames hadn’t told him anything about himself in return. He could have a boyfriend. He could have a _wife_.

But Arthur had spent his weekend in a post-coital haze, actually enjoying his life for the first time in a while, letting his mind wander between remembering his night with Eames and imagining future ones. Then Monday had rolled around and his office’s ad-hoc open-air terrace had been sealed off and he’d had to return to the real world. He’d spent the week buried elbow-deep in extremely sloppy contracts, which had kept his mind occupied and away from _Eames Eames I wonder what Eames is doing I wonder where Eames is I wonder if Eames is thinking about me I’ll get to see Eames on Friday_.

And now it was Friday and Eames wasn’t here. It was Friday, Arthur had barely slept at all the previous night due to the combination of a promise to get someone a document on Thursday (which, as everyone knows, means “before the office opens on Friday”) and excitement about the prospect of seeing Eames again, and Eames wasn’t here. It was four in the afternoon and Eames was clearly not going to show up.

And to make matters worse, the office was finally relatively quiet, which left Arthur with barely anything to distract him from his exhaustion and his disappointment. Last night a number of the senior partners left for the Bay Area to work on the negotiations for a two-billion-dollar waterfront development deal that Fischer Brown had been putting together for more than a year. Robert Fischer, the chairman’s son, was in charge of the project, and it had already attracted plenty of media speculation and public controversy; the local government was doggedly supporting the project, citing increased revenue, but local residents worried about noise and declining property values, and national conservation groups were making dire predictions about the environmental impacts of the project if it were to proceed. Arthur was sort of glad that he’d managed to avoid working on the whole thing, though it would have been a boon for his career. 

So now, with the cats away, the mouse that was Arthur was not playing but rather agonizing over why Eames had vanished, wondering whether he’d ever see him again, and hating himself for developing such a ridiculous set of expectations after what amounted to a one-night stand. Sure, there had been a lengthy and bizarre courtship leading up to it, but when it came right down to it, Arthur had slept with a guy he’d barely known and for some reason expected that it would turn out differently from all the previous times he had slept with guys he’d barely known — for some reason _wanted_ it to turn out differently. 

As Arthur sat at his desk, glaring miserably at his keyboard and trying not to look up at his unobstructed view of the city, an instant message from Ariadne popped up on his screen.

**Ariadne** : fischer-free friday!! let’s go have coffee? late lunch?

Arthur didn’t particularly want to socialize with anyone. Or leave his office. He mostly just wanted to sit there and wallow. But he was still rational enough to acknowledge that his wallowing was both unproductive and slightly pathetic.

**Arthur** : add some whiskey to that coffee and you’re on.  
 **Ariadne** : uhoh, bad day?  
 **Arthur** : something like that.  
 **Ariadne** : i’m on it. meet you in your office in 5min.

Arthur would wallow for five more minutes. Then he would go out with Ariadne, and get a little tipsy, and let her boundless perkiness rub off on him a bit. And he wouldn’t think about Eames. Because Eames wasn’t there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, a _little_ bit of angst to go with the fluff, but there's only one chapter to go, so you know it will be short-lived.


	7. Week Seven

Arthur had managed to get six continuous hours of sleep in his own bed, so already this Friday was looking better than the last one. Then again, he thought as he stepped from the lobby into the crowded elevator, perhaps six hours wasn’t enough, because he seemed to be hallucinating. Specifically, his hallucination took the form of Eames, clean-shaven and in a well-tailored suit, carrying a silver briefcase and staring up at the little news screen with the weather forecast. 

Arthur blinked slowly, looked away, and looked back. Nope, still there. 

Then the Eames hallucination’s eyes met his and did a double-take. 

The Eames of Arthur’s subconscious wouldn’t be surprised to see him. The Eames of Arthur’s subconscious wouldn’t be wearing a suit — he probably wouldn’t be wearing anything at all, but certainly not a suit — and he definitely wouldn’t have such an alarmed expression on his face. Though it didn’t make any sense, all signs were pointing to this Eames being flesh and blood rather than a hallucination.

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but Eames quickly looked away and gave a tiny, barely perceptible shake of his head: _No_. Arthur swallowed his words along with a knot of disappointment. He suddenly felt dizzy, like the ground had been kicked out from under him.

After gaping at Eames for a few more seconds, Arthur turned his back, facing the front of the elevator. He looked at the bank of buttons, trying to tamp down the overwhelming combination of anger, confusion, and humiliation that he was feeling. He’d finally given up hope of ever seeing Eames again, and now here he was, in a situation that made no sense. Arthur felt like he was being mocked, though whether it was by Eames or by some malicious god he couldn’t be sure.

As the elevator ascended, people gradually filtered out, until the only occupants left were Arthur, Eames, and some tall, blondish businessman Arthur had never seen before, who was standing next to Eames and also squinting at the little news screen. The buttons still illuminated were 20, Arthur’s floor, and 30, the chairman’s suite. 

Eames was here, and he was wearing a suit, and he was heading up to the top floor, and he wanted to pretend that he didn’t know Arthur. _Well_ , Arthur thought _, I guess this counts as closure in some weird way._ He leapt out of the elevator as soon as the doors slid open on the 20 th floor. As he hurried to take refuge in his office, though, he glanced backward. He just barely caught the distressed look on Eames’s face as the doors closed between them.

***

It was not Arthur’s most productive morning. He spent the next few hours staring blankly at the _Slate_ homepage, his feelings alternating between inexplicably furious at Eames (it’s not that it didn’t make sense for him to be angry at Eames, it’s just that now he wasn’t sure what exactly he should be angry _about_ ), maudlin with self-pity, and just plain confused.

He thought about taking a vacation. Maybe some time away from work and away from L.A. would be good for him. Take in some scenery, procure some good weed, read one or two of the books that had been sitting on his coffee table for years, perhaps pick up someone tall and skinny and well-groomed and not-British and have an exorcism fuck. 

He’d gotten as far as typing “where to travel to get over a weird relationship with someone you thought was a menial laborer but may have a secret” into the Google search bar when the door to his office opened and Eames, after checking both ways down the hallway, ducked in.

Before Arthur had a chance to say and/or shout anything, Eames was holding up his hands placatingly. “Arthur, I am so, so sorry. Please give me a chance to explain.”

Arthur crossed his arms and wiped his face of emotion. “A chance to explain why you didn’t contact me after we fucked, or a chance to explain why you were suddenly in the elevator today wearing a suit and heading to the top floor?”

Eames winced. “Both, I hope. Arthur, can I trust you?”

 _Can he trust me? What kind of question is that? He doesn’t know me. I don’t know him. Would I trust him?_ Arthur let out a long breath. “Sure, why the hell not.”

“I am not, as you may have surmised, actually a window-washer.” Eames leaned against the bookcase, giving Arthur space.

“Yeah, got that, thanks. Though that raises the question of why you were washing my windows.”

“I was doing surveillance.”

“You were _what_? You were _spying_ on me? For the firm?” Arthur sputtered.

“No, no,” Eames interjected. “I was spying on Maurice Fischer. It had nothing to do with you. You were an unexpected perk of the job.”

“Well, that’s flattering. Makes me sound like an iPhone your boss gave you for Christmas.”

“Trust me, love, you’re much sexier than an iPhone. And much more fun to play with.”

Arthur glared at him. _Really? You’re going to flirt with me right now?_ Eames looked chastened. “Wait, why were you spying on Fischer? Is the FTC doing black ops now?”

Eames sighed and looked at his hands. “Have you ever heard of dreamsharing?”

“I’ve… seen headlines about it on the tabloid magazines at the supermarket checkout, but I can’t say I’ve ever picked any of them up.”

“I work in dreamshare.”

Arthur barked out a single, sarcastic laugh. “Right. And I’m an alien lizard wearing human skin so that I can achieve world dominance. Through chemtrails.”

“I am being entirely serious, darling.”

Arthur checked Eames’s face, and sure enough, there was no sign of levity to be found. “You’re telling me that dreamsharing is real.”

“Very real.”

“Stealing ideas from people’s brains.”

“Yes.” Eames looked at his watch, a giant tacky gold thing. “I would be delighted to answer all of your disbelieving questions later, but could we table them for now? I’m in a bit of a hurry to get out of here. We just did an extraction on Fischer for Saito Nash.”

“Opposing counsel on the waterfront deal?”

“Exactly. The window-washing gig was the perfect opportunity to observe Fischer and the partners he works with most closely so that I could forge them, if necessary. It also let me help with the architecture, since the dream was set in the building. Granted, I _did_ have to wash a lot of windows. But really, it was ideal, because nobody pays attention to the window-washer. Well,” Eames cast Arthur a meaningful look, “almost nobody.”

Arthur wasn’t sure if he’d ever been in such a state of bafflement before. “Wait — what? Forge? Architecture?”

Eames dismissed the questions with the wave of a hand and plowed on. “Dom — he’s been leading the extraction, he’s the squinty chap who was next to me in the elevator — is the one who so rudely interrupted us the other weekend. He told me I needed to head to Phoenix immediately to tail Fischer’s wife before she left with her girlfriends for a trip to Thailand. And then I had to go straight from there to San Francisco to follow Fischer’s son to the negotiations and consult with Saito.”

After checking to make sure Arthur was still with him, Eames continued. “By the time I got back to L.A., we were deep in the final planning stages and I couldn’t get away. But I had always been planning to come here and find you before I left town — I just didn’t expect to run into you in the lift surrounded by witnesses before I’d had a chance to explain.”

This was a hell of a lot of information for Arthur to take in at once, but one piece stood out in particular. “You’re leaving?”

“I am. It’s never a good idea to stick around after an extraction, and dreamshare jobs tend to be scattered all over the globe.”

“Where are you going?”

Eames smiled slightly, and it was both rueful and hopeful. “That rather depends on you. Specifically, whether you’ll come with me, and where you’d like to go.”

“You — I — what?”

Eames stepped away from the bookcase and toward Arthur. “We need a good point man for our team, and I know you’d be perfect for it. Research, coordination, salvaging disasters… keeping me in line.” At this, Eames threw in a suggestive wink. “Occasional gunplay, both in the dreamworld and topside. The pay is inconsistent but when it comes it’s very good. Not legal, strictly speaking, but you probably could have guessed that.”

“Hold on, so you _are_ a secret agent.”

Eames scoffed. “Dreamwork is so much more exciting than simple espionage.”

Arthur swirled the dregs of his last cup of coffee around in the mug and thought about what Eames had just revealed to him. “You really think I would be good at it?”

“Arthur, love, I am _very good_ at reading people. You thrive under pressure, you can hold a hundred details in your mind at once, you like to see projects through to the end and then move on to completely new ones. You hate your job because it’s monotonous and unchallenging. I knew all that before I even talked to you. And then I learned about your military training, and that you didn’t have anything or anyone tying you down here, and… well, I was going to ask you sooner, to give you a little more time to decide, but my emergency trip to Phoenix threw a spanner in that whole plan.”

A bizarre thought occurred to Arthur. “Wait, did you stage the scaffold breaking so that you could talk to me?”

Eames chuckled. “No, that was sheer luck, I’m afraid. I even called Dom to help get me out and he refused, saying it would attract too much attention. Up until then I had been resigned to admiring you from afar, but thankfully I had a chance to discover that you were even more fun to admire from close up.” He grinned devilishly and leaned in with an exaggerated conspiratorial tone. “I guess you could say… that was only the start of my falling for you.”

“Oh my god, Eames.” Arthur swatted his shoulder. “That’s the worst pun anyone’s ever made in the history of language.”

“If you think that’s bad, love, just wait until you hear all of my dream-related pick-up lines. I’ve had years to amass them.” Eames winked, but his expression suddenly sobered. “Come travel the world with me, Arthur. You’ll see more cities than you even knew existed. I should very much like to shag you in each of them, but that’s optional.”

Arthur stood up and stepped closer to Eames. He felt as though he were standing on a precipice, trying to decide whether to jump. Behind him: the life he was familiar with, a life of business meetings and hastily-snatched sleep and coffee gone cold. Stretched out in front him: an unpredictable landscape of danger, intrigue, and instability, one he hadn’t even known existed until ten minutes ago.

Behind him was the certainty of a stable job, a steady income, waking up to the same sunrise every morning and working through the same sunset every evening.

Ahead of him, the only certainty would be _un_ certainty _._ And Eames by his side.

Arthur held his hand out to Eames. Eames took it. And together, they jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! Thanks for all your kind comments. I had lots of fun writing this. Now I just need to sit back and wait for another suitably cracky prompt to inspire me!


End file.
